why

I didn’t set out to make an album. I didn’t even know where I was going or what I’d be doing when I decided to quit my job, potentially ending a career I’d spent over a decade building. What I knew was that I could no longer hear myself above the din of everyday life.

So in August of 2011 I embarked on a year-long odyssey. My first stop was the bucolic Methow Valley in Washington state. It was there, in a tiny cabin known as “The Owl’s Nest,” that I dusted off my college guitar. Back in school, I’d always played other people’s music, but here in this quiet refuge, I felt compelled to write my own. Over the course of a month I composed a handful of songs, which were recorded live at a local musician’s home studio, mostly so I wouldn’t forget them.

My year progressed in a circuitous fashion. I travelled far. I retreated close. I focused on my footing. Music accompanied me as my journal and source of sanity as I moved through experiences: some magical, some humbling. Along the way I continued to record song sketches and, by the end of my journey, I found myself with a collection: a Record of my year.